Beguiling Bridget (14 page)

“Right,” Ambrose mumbled, and then he disappeared.

“You’ll marry me?” Anthony asked again as he pulled back slightly.

“Yes.” She kissed him again. “But I was thinking.”

“Mmmm?” Anthony found utter delight in nuzzling her neck and tasting her creamy skin.

“Since we’ve already fenced…”

Had her skin always been this smooth? This perfect? His tongue craved the taste of her.

“Perhaps, you can now teach me to shoot?”

A sudden chill overtook him. Shoot? Did she just ask him to teach her how to shoot?

“Absolutely not.” He continued kissing her.

Bridget pulled away and tilted her head. Anthony moved forward to recapture her mouth, but she stepped backward.

“Ah.” He chuckled and rubbed his chin. “Let me guess… No more kissing unless I agree to your terms.”

“Well…” Bridget slowly circled him. “I know how much you like to win. Just think. If you teach me, I’ll be horrible at first, and you can best me at something. We both know fencing isn’t your sport.”

Anthony caught her and pulled her to him once more as they stepped into the shadows. He bit across her neck. “Oh my dear, believe me. There are a few things I can teach you. I do have a sport. You just haven’t been made privy to the game… yet.”

Chapter Fourteen

Foul Play

Bridget was still floating late the next morning as she scurried about the study preparing for Anthony’s visit with her uncle. She couldn’t wait to see him again. It was the only thing on her mind.

In fact, she was so preoccupied that when Francis announced the arrival of Sir Wilde, it took several moments before she remembered she had arranged for a meeting between him and Gemma that same morning.

“Lady Bridget, I want to thank you once again for setting this up. The lady is so skittish I find it quite impossible to get her alone no matter what I try.”

“Yes, Gemma can easily become distressed. You will keep that in mind, I hope, when you see her this morning. Won’t you, Sir Wilde?”

“Of course. I would never do anything to hurt Lady Gemma,” he answered with an earnest nod.

Bridget led him to the salon. “You can wait in here. Gemma will arrive shortly.”

Sir Wilde began pacing immediately.

“Will you sit, sir?”

“No… no. I think not.” He continued without missing a stride.

Well, she had no time to babysit Sir Wilde. There were too many things left to do. And Anthony would be arriving any moment. Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought of seeing him again.

“If you will excuse me then, I have some things to which I must attend.”

“Of course…of course,” he answered without so much as a glance.

Francis stopped her in the foyer. “Lady Gemma, my lady.”

“Thank you, Francis. Please show her to the salon. I’ll be with her presently. And, Francis?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Please let me know the moment Viscount Maddox arrives.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The butler pivoted and went about his business. Bridget rushed up the stairs to finish preparing for her visit with Anthony. Perhaps they would finally go for that picnic he had been so eagerly promoting for the past week. Or they could spend the afternoon discussing plans for their wedding.

It didn’t matter. Just being with him was all she desired.

Bridget giggled. If anyone had told her at the beginning of the Season she would be giddy as a debutante over any man within a few short weeks, she would have had them declared a heretic by the Church.

Safe inside her room, she closed the door and slumped against it with a deep, contented sigh.

****

Anthony bounded up the steps to the Burnside residence. No amount of pain in his backside would slow him down on this day. Yes, it seemed everything was falling into place quite nicely.

He allowed himself a deep soothing breath of air and knocked on the door. The butler, who should be expecting him, nodded and led him through the entryway. As Anthony passed the salon where Bridget had painted his portrait, a smile spread across his face. Remembering the silly banter — and the excruciating self control expressed, for he wasn’t able to kiss her even though he desperately wanted to — he motioned for the butler to wait and walked over to the closed doors.

Just one peek. After all, Bridget wasn’t one to gloat over her talent, who knows when she would actually show him the painting. Yes, he would allow himself one peek and she wouldn’t be the wiser.

Anthony lifted his hand to open the door, but the butler cleared his throat. “My lord, if you will just follow me.”

“One moment.” Anthony’s hand moved to the doorknob, then he shook his head. What the blazes was he doing? Gentleman didn’t just roam about people’s homes, peeking into their rooms! Clearly he was in need of a drink, or quite possibly he was out of his mind. The sooner he married Bridget the better.

And then…

He heard it.

Unmistakable. Even from this distance.

Wilde? What the devil was he doing here? His hand reached again for the door.

“Sir,” the butler interrupted, “please follow me.”

Anthony knew he shouldn’t be rummaging through the house, but the sound of Wilde’s voice on the other side of the door drew him, and he continued to twist the knob. A strange pang of apprehension burned in his stomach. Wilde had no business at Bridget’s home.

He pushed the door open.

And froze.

Anthony’s blood ran cold. For standing in the middle of the room was a redhead — his redhead — and she was kissing his best friend.

Wilde cursed and turned blood red.

“I’ll kill you.” Anthony seethed as he watched Wilde shield the woman in question. His pain was so deep, so life altering that his lips could not even utter her name.

“Whatever for?” Wilde yelled. “Was I not kissing her appropriately? Considering you were doing the exact same thing last night, I doubt it is you who should be pointing fingers, my friend!”

“We are not friends. Friends do not…” Anthony’s rage was hardly in check; he lifted a trembling hand to his forehead and stormed out of the room.

Anthony reached the door then yelled behind him, “Name your second, Wilde! Pistols at dawn!”

****

The sound of Anthony’s voice filtered up the stairs, causing Bridget’s heart to take up residence in her throat. She took one last glance in her looking glass, pinched her cheeks, and rushed to meet him.

Her feet were moving so fast she was certain she would lose her footing on the steps and dive headfirst down to the foyer, so she forced herself to slow down. After all, he wouldn’t leave without seeing her. No use breaking her neck on the day of their engagement.

Just as she reached the landing, she caught sight of her beloved viscount standing in the front entry with his back to her. A sudden sense of foreboding caught her off guard, and then she heard it.

“The engagement is off!” His pronouncement echoed through the house so terribly it felt as though the walls would crumble around her. And most certainly, her heart already was.

He didn’t appear to have seen her standing there, as though his statement was made to no one in particular and everyone all at once. It made not a whit of sense. Had they not been ridiculously happy mere hours before? Bridget knew she had been.

Unless…

It was all a horrible joke. An evil scheme. A rakish plot to defraud the heart of an impossible woman, to make her love him, then to turn the tables and remind her of the lesson she had long understood.

Men leave. The arrogant ones leave sooner.

Wasn’t it just her pure, dumb, Irish luck that this one ripped out her beating heart and took it with him?

Bridget stared at the closed door long after the viscount had disappeared. Her body seemed frozen in place. One hand on the banister, one foot on the stair below, and one foot on the landing.

From somewhere worlds away, she could hear the stifled cries of a woman and the soft murmurings of comfort coming from a man. But neither were for her.

With great effort she pivoted on her heels and trudged back up the stairs to her chamber, willing her own tears to stay and her heart to hold together until she reached the safety of her own room.

Chapter Fifteen

Replay

“Is he dead?” Ambrose mumbled, standing over Anthony.

“It’s possible he thought he saw a strawberry and had a fit of the vapors,” Wilde concurred. “Or perhaps he now understands what a pickle he’s gotten himself into.”

If Anthony had any strength left he would have punched Wilde in the eye or perhaps pelted him with a strawberry, the deadly fruit. Or a harder weapon, like an apple. Yes, an apple would do nicely. Instead he groaned and moved to his knees, using the table to pull himself into the chair.

“You weren’t kissing Bridget.” On one hand, he hoped Wilde had been kissing her, because then his behavior would have been acceptable, expected even. It would have been understandable that he would call off the engagement — shouting it through the manor, sending her a letter of accusation — to challenge his best friend to a duel, and when he realized he lacked the backbone to go through with it, to drink himself into such a stupor that his entire body felt like it was sinking into the ground. Men would have nodded their approval and women would have whispered sympathetically behind their fans that his poor heart had been broken. But he had been wrong. And now?

Bridget would never forgive him.

With a shake of his head, he finally ventured to look into Wilde’s eyes.

“It was Gemma I was…
speaking
with in the salon. The lady who holds my heart. Lady Bridget had kindly consented to aid me in my suit to woo her.” Wilde took a seat next to Anthony and glared, his fists were clenched at his sides. The muscles in his jaw twitched with fury. “Now thanks to your bungling, she won’t speak to me. The poor thing is so embarrassed. Convinced word will get out, and she’ll be ruined. She’s locked herself in her room and refuses to see any living soul other than her brother and Lady Bridget.”

Anthony moaned. He could not have possibly made a bigger mess of things.

“I’d wager he’d do anything to take yesterday back, even if it meant eating a carriage full of strawberries,” Ambrose said.

Idiot.

“I believe I have had my fill of your wagers, Ambrose.” Anthony slid his fingers through his hair in anguish. “What have I done? I must go to her. I have to find her — to tell her I was wrong. Explain things. She shall be cross, but perhaps she’ll understand.”

“Ha!” Ambrose slapped his knee. “You obviously have not seen a woman scorned before. Cross? She shall be more than cross! You’ll be lucky to escape her without losing your favorite appendage.”

“Surely cutting off his right arm would be too drastic, even for this offense,” Wilde offered.

Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Not his arm, you dolt. I spoke of his
favorite
appendage, though I’ll grant you, not the most useful. No doubt Anthony would argue otherwise…”

Anthony groaned again and allowed his head to fall to the wooden table with a thud.

“Up you go.” Ambrose lifted his brother to his feet and helped him stumble to the door. “Now, you must be careful not to make a bigger muddle of things.”

“Just apologize and kiss her,” Wilde offered.

“Yes,” Ambrose agreed, pushing open the door. “And if she draws a pistol, just let her shoot. You shall both feel better.”

“Let her shoot? And if she kills me?” He could hardly believe his ears. Ambrose thought this was a laughing matter!

“A woman with aim? Unheard of. I can’t imagine she shall do any permanent damage, and if she does, you don’t want to live without her anyway, do you?”

“Your concern for me is touching.” Anthony’s body throbbed with the pain brought on by a long night of consumption. “So, that’s your advice?” he asked as he dragged himself into the carriage without aid. “Kiss her, apologize, and permit her to shoot me?”

Wilde and Ambrose shrugged in unison and climbed in behind him. “Do you have a better strategy?” his brother asked politely.

Of course not. Anthony was not the most eloquent when it came to saying pretty words during times of great importance, though he was smooth enough when the moment was trivial.

Up until now, it had always been trivial. Nothing more than challenge after juvenile challenge. A simple case of puerile amusement for a University rogue.

But when it mattered, as it did now, he was no better than a bungling Frenchman.

“Where is she?” He grunted as his head fell back against the wall of the carriage.

“Hyde Park,” Wilde answered. “She convinced Gemma to take the morning air with her.”

“To Hyde Park!” Anthony hit the side of the carriage, and it rumbled down the road.

“Are you sure you should see her in your current state of…” Ambrose motioned to his brother’s disarray.

“Stench,” Wilde offered.

“I carry no fetid odors.” Anthony murmured and stared out the window. At least he hoped he didn’t. Perhaps the London air would counteract his eau d’ drunkenness. He couldn’t wait another minute to see Bridget. He had to convince her to take him back.

Ambrose was not so far off the mark. Truly, Anthony would prefer death to the knowledge that he had lost her forever.

The carriage came to a stop. Anthony jumped out.

Unfortunately, his boots tangled with one another, and he fell backward, flat on his bum. He cursed and rolled to his side.

“I changed my mind.” Ambrose peered out through the door. “Just let her shoot you.”

“Helpful.” Anthony cursed and managed to clamber to his wobbly feet. Seeing double wasn’t at all helpful as he hunted through the park for Bridget. He was glad for her definitive red hair; she would be much easier to spot that way.

Within a few minutes he located her strolling by the river with her likewise scarlet-tressed friend. Anthony lost no time strategizing his approach and marched straight toward Bridget.

“Bridget!” he called after her, gaining her immediate attention.

Her eyes narrowed when she spotted him, and with a word to her companion, she spun on her heel and walked in the opposite direction.